Lactose Intolerant
by APerfectGrace
Summary: When it comes to picking up dudes in supermarkets, Dean is as smooth as crunchy peanut butter. Destiel. One shot.


Dean is grumbling to himself as he stalks past the meat aisle, trying to finish the grocery shopping as quickly as possible because no one should _ever_ have to stand there and pick between _thirty seven_ different types of coffee when they're _all the same fucking thing_. He rounds the corner, practically stomping towards the milk section, all the while imagining throttling Sam with the cord from his dressing gown for making him get up at seven-thirty at the fucking crack of dawn to get these goddamn groceries – like they still wouldn't be here if he got up five hours later but _no_, apparently they're needed _now _and Sam is just _too indisposed _to get them himself and _what the hell, Dean_, it will do you some good to get out of the house, get some fresh air!

_Soya milk, soya milk, soya milk_, he repeats mentally, like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing an utter hissy fit in front of the cheddar cheese, and there is never, _ever_ an appropriate time to have Taylor Swift blaring out of speakers across the place at a volume that would be more at home at a truck rally, but soon he spots the cream and green carton that he's looking for but _uh oh_, only one left _ahhhh _fucking _screw it_, no one picks up this shit anyway –

Then a tanned, slender hand is covering his hand at the _exact_ moment he wraps it around the carton, and then he hears a low, male voice murmur 'Oh, I'm sorry,' and he looks up to deal with this touchy-feely shit when _whoaaaaaaaaaa_ hot _damn_…

And suddenly he's drinking in black sweatpants and running trainers and dark grey _tight_ t-shirt and strong arms _oh holy shit the forearms_ and white headphones snaking underneath the t-shirt and hanging off of the collar of it _son of a bitch that's hot_ –

And then he's onto the pièce de résistance: square jaw and strong chin and full, plump lips and pointed nose and high cheekbones and dishevelled, dark bed hair that you'd sell your_ soul_ to run your fingers through, and finally, intense, cerulean eyes framed by thick lashes that are just blinking at him _oh fuck this dude is looking right at him_ and his mouth is moving and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ he's actually talking to Dean _quick zone in, Winchester_, re-boarding in three, two, one –

"– and I thought I was the only one who drinks this," he was saying with an apologetic smile.

"Are you kidding?" Dean manages to get a grip on his tongue, "I drink it all the time! I never drink anything else!"

Which is a load of fucking _crap_ because he's buying this milk for Sammy and he wouldn't touch this shit with a twenty foot barge pool but he doesn't need to know that.

And it takes a second for Dean to realise that they _still have their hands touching_; they haven't moved them from the carton at all, and now some elderly lady with a lime green, fur-trimmed coat on (shudder) is staring at them weirdly so he slowly lowers his hand, feeling a pang of disappointment as the guy withdraws his hand too, but funny tingles all over where they'd been touching.

"Uh, you want it?" he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly and gesturing to the carton, but the guy is shaking his head, smiling.

"You had your hand on it first. You can have it."

"Are you sure?"

"I insist."

"Oh, well…" He grabs it and pops it in his basket, a little thankful cause he does _not_ need Sam's bitch-face so early in the morning. "Thanks, man."

"No problem." And then he's off, walking away with a cheery nod and a little bounce in his stride and oh sweet_ Jesus_ check out that _ass_.

And it suddenly dawns on Dean that this guy is hella hot and right up his back alley (heh) so he does the only logical thing he can think of: he stalks him throughout the entire supermarket, hiding behind huge displays of window cleaner and running across aisles, and there's one point where he's peeking at him trying to decide between vermicelli or linguine, his teeth nibbling at his bottom lip in thought, and it's so arousing that Dean accidentally bumps up against his hiding point from behind the cereal boxes, but it's too much of a knock and a few of them fall down to the ground.

And suddenly the dark-haired angel is frowning at the boxes on the floor and looking up in confusion and oh shit oh shit he's spotted him _fuck_, duck and roll, _duck and roll_, and Dean legs it so fast down the cereal aisle he nearly knocks over a twelve year old girl in a Twilight t-shirt.

From then on it seems like at every turn and corner they bump into each other: in the produce aisle, at the delicatessen, in front of the condiments, past the toiletries – this guy is literally everywhere Dean is going now, and he can only gawk and blush and slither away like a fifteen year old with a ridiculous crush, and it's so confusing and exhilarating that Dean has no idea whether _he's_ chasing _him_ or whether it's the other way around, but fucking hell if it isn't the most exciting time that he's had out of the house in a _long_ time.

But the guy doesn't seem to be weirded or creeped out at all; in fact, every time he seems to bump into Dean his grin gets a little wider and his eyes shine a little brighter, and he's giving him a really heated gaze that seems to rush through his entire body, and his mind keeps going back to when his hand fell over his…

And then it's time to go; it's time to pay and leave, and Dean is at the cashier's desk stuffing everything into bags, when a figure brushes past him, contact so fleeting that Dean nearly misses the slip of paper he drops on top of his eggs, and his head whirls around so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. He's so preoccupied with watching the backside in sweatpants walk out of the supermarket that it takes him a second to realise what's happened, and then he's scrambling for the piece of paper like his life depends on it, and as he picks it up his hands shake a little with anticipation.

_You owe me a carton of soya milk._

_I think that this is an acceptable enough request, considering that you took the last one._

_I will accept cash, card, and payment in the form of your name and a date this Thursday evening._

_;)_

_Castiel._

Dean is punching the digits underneath Castiel's name so fast into his phone that he's in serious danger of breaking a finger, but right now he couldn't care less. Right now he thinks that getting up at seven-thirty to come grocery shopping may have been the best decision ever made, and he's gonna kiss Sam when he gets back home.

Outside, Castiel is loading his bags into the back of his car when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he pulls it out he sees that he's received a text message from an unknown number.

_Castiel,_

_You're on. Thursday night at 8pm._

_;)_

_Dean._


End file.
